


Paris, Three Days Later

by fictionalportal



Series: Pride Month 2.0: Extra Fluffy Edition [4]
Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/F, Happy Ending, delphine is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 13:25:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11647470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalportal/pseuds/fictionalportal
Summary: So I really wish Atomic Blonde had ended differently. Here’s an alternate ending based on @foolishmortal's post where Delphine didn’t die and Lorraine’s trip to Paris wasn’t just for spy business. Picks up during the scene where Lorraine kills Bremovych.





	Paris, Three Days Later

“And let’s get one thing straight. I never worked for you. You worked for me.”

One of the last two guards standing went for his gun, but Lorraine was faster. A bullet shattered his kneecap and he collapsed, catching another bullet in his head. As for the other unfortunate henchman, his brains were on the wall behind him in less than a second.

“I want my fucking life back,” Lorraine insisted. Her final shot clipped Bremovych’s neck, opening his artery and dropping him to the carpet.

Lorraine rushed from the room. She wasn’t afraid of being discovered–Lorraine Broughton hadn’t been afraid of anything in a long, long time–but she had better things to do than wait for the CIA to catch up and claim her kill just so they could lord it over MI6.

In the elevator, time stopped. For the first time in years, Lorraine had no one to report to. She didn’t have to care about the petty feud between C and Kurzfeld or pretend to take a side. She didn’t have to brush up on her Russian in order to go undercover as some bombshell with a gun strapped to each of her garters. She didn’t have to wear garters at all. Lorraine wasn’t one for symbolic gestures, but a part of her wanted to crush the watch that every man in intelligence had wished to have strapped to his wrist. The List itself was hidden away, but the vessel that had carried it had become more monstrous in her eyes. Countless people had died prying it from their respective enemies’ hands.

Lorraine pulled off the short brown wig and let her own blonde hair fall.

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor of the hotel. At the end of the hallway, behind a fleeting door, her new life waited for her. She’d become a spy because information was power and power was security in an unstable world, but somewhere along the way she started to feel more like the prey than the hunter. Less so, even–she was the trigger on the gun that the hunters used to shoot at each other. The men in suits would claim they’d seen a bear in the woods and send her to fix the problem. They never wished her a safe return, only a successful mission.

Now she had all of the information, more leverage than she could possibly need to get whatever she wanted.

Lorraine unlocked the door without lingering in the hallway. Unlike the harsh neon rooms of East Germany’s least savory hovels, the French room was warm and soft and lit by glowing oil lamps. Impractical, but indulgent in a way that wasn’t unappealing.

Unfortunately, it was too dangerous to stay. Whether the Russians, English, or Americans found Bremovych first, Lorraine wouldn’t be safe in the hotel.

She threw on her coat and loaded her gun with a new magazine just in case someone tried to block the exits. As she dropped the half-empty magazine into her coat pocket, she heard a voice behind her.

“You’re leaving without celebrating?”

Lorraine whirled around and instinctively pointed her gun at the source of the voice. She dropped it to her side when she saw Delphine leaning on the wardrobe with a glass in each hand.

“Stoli on the rocks,” Delphine said knowingly, passing off one of the glasses. She was ready to leave, dressed in her own heavier coat and a sleek wide-brimmed hat.

Lorraine accepted the drink. As she took a sip, Delphine mirrored her. The bruised line around her neck was fading, but Lorraine’s memory of breaking into the apartment and finding Delphine’s body on the floor was still as vivid as the neon lights of Berlin. She had been smart enough to go limp in Percival’s chokehold, and as far as MI6 knew, she was dead. Nobody would come searching for her.

Everyone, on the other hand, would be after Lorraine and the damn List that had ruined so many lives.

“Have you got a light?” Lorraine asked, retrieving an ash tray from the other end of the wardrobe.

Delphine reached into her coat and brought out a lighter.

Lorraine set her glass and gun on top of the wardrobe and opened the top drawer. She pulled out a pair of thick, woolen socks and tore at the top seam with her teeth. Delphine was watching her, confused, likely, as to why Lorraine was suddenly acting like a dog with a new chew toy, when Lorraine slid her finger into a tiny pocket and withdrew a tiny square of plastic and dropped it in the ash tray.

“Is that it?” Delphine asked in wonder.

Lorraine placed her hand over Delphine’s and flicked the lighter on. Delphine’s eyes were wide, brimming with hesitation and uncertainty. Slowly, Lorraine moved their hands until the flame licked at the corner of the microfiche. The square caught quickly, and in a blink was melted into a rancid-smelling black puddle.

“That’s it,” Lorraine said conclusively.

“You could have been a puppet master with that list,” Delphine said. “Controlled governments with steel strings.”

Lorraine abandoned the lighter on top of the wardrobe. Her fingers ghosted over Delphine’s still-raw wound and settled on caressing her jaw. “I think steel strings have done enough damage.”


End file.
